


Working for Vacation

by lurrel



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:08:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurrel/pseuds/lurrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames really misses working with Arthur. Arthur is taking well-deserved break from crime. For IRBB.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Working for Vacation

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Мы работаем, чтобы отдыхать](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3106730) by [PrettyPenny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyPenny/pseuds/PrettyPenny)



> For DarkKnighting's [gorgeous summery artwork for IRBB.](http://darkknighting.livejournal.com/3787.html) Go look at Arthur's lovely hips.

Dominick Cobb leaves LAX without looking back, a free man and a reunited father. Ariadne goes back to Paris, Yusuf to Mombasa, Saito to Tokyo, and Eames heads to Las Vegas.

Arthur disappears.

-

No one worries.

At first it’s because no one notices. Arthur lives off the radar, has a skill set that doesn’t get advertised on job boards, has hidden apartments on several continents. It’s not unusual for dreamers to drop out of contact for a few months after the job. It’s not indicative of his well-being, at least not to most.

There are also, truth be told, very few people left to worry about his continued existence beyond a professional and cordial relationship.

Eames can relate, which is why he likes to consider himself one of those people -- someone who knows Arthur better than most of the people in their line of work. He’s certain Arthur knows him better than most -- after all, they’d worked together on and off ever since someone smuggled a PASIV out of a military test site.

He was there to watch Arthur reverse engineer it, even. That has to mean something.

That’s the only kind of history with people Eames really has left, anyway -- he started his career in crime as an art thief and that didn’t lend itself to keeping up great familial or romantic relations. So he has colleagues he can work with, and colleagues he can trust, and Arthur is one of the few in the latter category.

He’s even one of the few people in the business that Eames has managed to sleep with without creating an explosive and alienating disaster. That probably still doesn’t make them friends, however, and it especially doesn’t make them the sort to check in on each other, so Eames doesn’t. He’s taking a break from dream sharing, anyway. He’s got enough money he could make a bed out of it.

-

It turns out that Eames does have a limit on how much money it’s fun to lose, and his enjoyment of opulent hotel rooms eventually wears thin. Being secure, and not being wanted by any particularly large corporation, is a new condition for him. 

He steals a couple small Dutch Golden Age paintings to keep his mind sharp, but ends up back in Mombasa, smoking and sweating a lot. It’s the only flat he still has a lease for, though he does own a minor castle in English countryside (it’s where he stores his art). It’s almost deserted, though, and not very cozy. He makes Yusuf come over and look at overpriced real estate online sometimes, toying with the idea of moving to a hub like New York or Paris.

Instead, Eames picks up a job after about three months of mostly sitting around. He needs the high stakes, if not the payout, so at least it's something interesting.

He runs the extraction, not bothering with using a forge in the dreamscape because it’s pretty straightforward. Company A wants to know if Company B is price fixing. They find a guy, hit him on his commute, and steal away. It’s simple, but there is a small security scuffle on the train which is always fun. 

But the adrenaline rush is missing.

“Where’s Arthur on this one?” Jorge asks at their celebratory dinner. He’s eating a whole lobster by himself, and has a bib tied around his neck.

“He’s on hiatus,” Eames says, hoping Jorge knows something to contradict him because he’s been wondering the same thing. He’d put out feelers through the usual channels, but he doesn’t want to seem desperate. It’s only been three months, after all.

"Yeah, I figured if anyone knew where he was, it’d be you. Guess he’s off the grid for real this time, huh?”

Eames scowls and finishes his bourbon.

-

Not knowing Arthur’s location nags at him. He’s in Macao, China, smoking in a VIP lounge and playing with a full flush up his sleeve. He’s too distracted to count cards, but it’s not like that’s his only trick. Eames hates losing mostly on principle, though it is sometimes necessary to keep from getting kicked out. The City of Dreams casino is too huge, too glitzy, and too full of interesting marks to risk that kind of unpleasantness.

The longer he works with Jorge, the more he feels he needs to find Arthur. There’s no challenge to the corporate jobs he takes, and Jorge is one of the riskier architects in business. Everyone else spends their time doing research for various militaries, running errands for suspicious millionaires, or fucking around in dreamcades. Arthur, in contrast, always has the best leads, the hardest jobs, ideas that really push at Eames’ abilities. He never makes Eames run the extraction if he can help it; he always pulls him in for a forge or a particularly difficult in-person infiltration.

Eames needs to find Arthur because otherwise he’ll die of professional boredom, he decides. The Fischer job, actually succeeding at inception, has ruined him.

-

He’s not a researcher. Three days into Project: Find Arthur (and get some better jobs), this has never been more clear. Eames excels in the hands on, infiltration, that sort of information gathering. But following a trail on the Deep Web to track someone who doesn’t want to be found is beyond him. He’s holed up in a nice hotel in Lyon, typing on a laptop he bought a week or so before. His own rig is in Mombasa -- he travels light, and he’s got the money to spare.

He gives up on day four and pulls out his cellphone and calls Ariadne.

She laughs at him. “Eames, are you serious?”

“Dead serious, love,” Eames says, “though I’ll admit I don’t have very good leads. Arthur normally does this type of research.”

“Well, you’re in luck. I saw him a few weeks ago -- he was in town to visit Aquaboulevard, the waterpark thingy.”

Eames pauses. “Ariadne, don’t fuck around with me.”

“I’m not, I swear!” She laughs like what she’s saying makes sense. “It’s a great waterpark, Eames.”

“You must be joking or _he_ must have been joking.” Eames has seen Arthur stripped down to his boxer briefs but the thought of him on a waterslide is ridiculous. In a swimsuit. Having fun that doesn’t involve a getaway car chase or a gun fight.

“He seemed pretty excited about it, but I guess it could be an act.” The shrug is almost audible over the phone.

“I’ll...I’ll look into it, I guess.”

“Great. Uh, look me up if you need an architect okay?” The words are a little rushed together and Eames feels better about his own desperate need to get back into high stakes crime, then feels bad that they’ve corrupted Ariadne entirely.

He also feels a bit irritated that Arthur bothered to say hello to Ariadne but hasn’t thought to even drop an email in Eames’ direction. There no way Arthur doesn’t know he’s looking for him -- Arthur’s too good and Eames isn’t bothering to be 100% undetectable. It’s more that he’s leaving giant online trails up like beacons to catch Arthur’s attention.

He wonders if Arthur has a Speedo.

-

Eames does have a list of Arthur’s known aliases, because that’s the kind of thing he sears into his memory for jobs. It takes a couple more weeks, triangulating off hotels near Aqueboulevard, to find out where Arthur is. He even has to call Martina, a particularly unforgiving ex-girlfriend, to check some flight paths. She does it, but makes him promise to steal her some emeralds from a small American museum, which is at least something fun to do. She’s always appreciated his skill set.

He arrives on Big Island in a linen suit with a few leads for jobs that require a pointman. They’re not great jobs but with Arthur they could be fun, even though secretly he hopes Arthur has some leads of his own. The problem with having a specialized skill set is that people normally call _Eames_ with jobs, so he’s still trying to hone his job hunting skills.

He checks into a condo and drives around for a while, stopping in at big hotels and casually impersonating an officer of the law as he asks if the man in this mugshot is staying there. He’s a little inundated with palm trees and how large the sky is when not blocked in by skyscrapers. It’s a bit unnerving.

Arthur’s staying at the Hilton, it turns out, under a shitty pseudonym that’s so obviously fake (“Rusty Nale”) that Eames wonders if he’s figured out he’s being tracked.

“Oh yeah, he’s out back at the bar,” says the manager, pointing to the sprawling outdoor deck. Eames tucks away the photo and the forged badge and saunters out.

The bar sits next to a giant swimming pool, over which there’s a direct sightline to the ocean. It’s completely over the top in the way that resort hotels tend to be, and sure enough sees Arthur sitting at the bar. He’s chatting with a couple of Latin American tourists in Spanglish, wearing a pale blue polo shirt and some sharply pressed shorts. His entire posture is loose, like he’s in a forge.

“Fancy meeting you here!” Eames calls out, and catches Arthur wincing as he looks up. “It’s been forever, hasn’t it?”

“It’s been awhile, at least,” he says, locking eyes with Eames for a minute. His tone is a little brittle, but he smiles, quick at recovery.

“This is Giles, an old colleague of mine,” Arthur says smoothly.

Eames snorts but holds out his hand anyway. He says some pleasantries to the tourists before sliding into the seat next to Arthur.

That’s when he notices that Arthur is drinking out of a pineapple.

“What is that monstrosity you’re drinking.”

“It’s a Pina Colada, in the actual Pina,” Arthur says, tilting the fruit toward Eames. “It’s probably a little sweet for your tastes.”

“You drink your coffee black,” Eames says accusingly.

“No cream, three sugars. Do you think I enjoy torturing myself every morning?”

This was, in fact, Eames’ working hypothesis. 

“I just wouldn’t have pegged you for a man who enjoys fruity cocktails.”

Arthur shrugs. “I’m on vacation.”

-

Eames gets his number at the bar but has his text messages resolutely ignored for a day, probably to punish him for appearing unexpectedly.

Arthur does eventually invite Eames out for a meal, and they go out for Japanese.

He orders sake, but Arthur gets a frozen daiquiri and orders nothing but maki rolls.

“You’re a heathen,” Eames says when the drinks arrive.

“I’m not sure why this is a surprise,” Arthur says, mouth quirked.

“I’m not either.” It’s true, maybe he only saw Arthur on the job, but the suits he wore screamed cultured.

“Besides, do I need to order in Japanese to impress you or something? Maybe I like California rolls.”

“Uncouth. At least don’t use a fork, or your fingers.”

“Ha. I’ll get the chopsticks with the rubber band on top for kids, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“What even brings you out to Hawaii? You don’t strike me as a fan of the beach.”

Arthur shrugs. “I’m on vacation.”

Eames raises his eyebrows. “Arthur, how long have we known each other? Eight years? You’ve never taken a vacation in your life.”

Arthur meets his eyes and he’s still smirking, the bastard. “Right. So I figured I was owed one.”

“The dreamshare world thinks you’re dead.” An overstatement, but not much of one, if Eames’ research is to be believed.

“Whenever I finish vacationing they’ll be in for a big surprise, I guess.”

“And what are you doing while ‘on vacation?’” Eames makes airquotes with his fingers and Arthur actually snorts.

“Well, I was snorkeling with manta rays yesterday while you were having a text message breakdown. Tomorrow I’ll probably check out ziplining or a volcano tour or something. It’s a vacation, I’m not scheduling it down to the minute.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Arthur smiles. “Okay, you got me there. I have a surfing lesson at 7 am tomorrow, and then I’m doing a hike with some other guests, then I’m doing a helicopter ride with that couple you met at the bar. Rounding it out with the hotel’s luau.”

“ _That_ sounds far more reasonable.”

“So what brings _you_ to Hawaii, now that you can stalk me up close and personal for the next twenty-four hours.”

“I wanted to work with you again.”

“I’m flattered,” Arthur deadpans. “You spent a month tracking me down to run a job together?”

“Of course. You’re the best.” He’s not sure where the incredulity is coming from, honestly.

“So what’s the job?”

“I have a couple potential ones, but to be honest I was hoping you had some leads.”

“You tracked me down to ask me to get you a job?” Arthur fiddles with his chopsticks and smirks.

“Well.”

“You don’t have a lot going on, huh?”

“I’ve been doing fine, thanks.” Eames says. “I mean, I guess I’m not swimming with manta rays like you but I’m doing great.”

“Did you like, get bored redecorating your castle?”

“I haven’t tried it yet,” Eames says, “and seriously, will you run a job or two with me?”

Arthur shakes his head. “No. But you can come surfing with me tomorrow if you want.”

“Why would I be up at seven in the morning?”

Arthur shoots him a look. Eames gets their sushi to-go.

-

Eames is terrible at surfing, but Arthur lets him hog the covers and ends up sunburnt, so it’s almost a win. Kind of.

-

Eames finally finds a job he wants to take. It’s from an oil company power broker, and involves quite a bit of internal drama in a subsidiary that would require visiting at least three countries. It sounds, quite frankly, dangerous.

But he needs a pointman for the job, a real team instead of the two man jobs Eames has been up to. Unfortunately, this search leads him to Florida.

Orlando is hot. It’s muggy. It’s full of people with poor spatial reasoning skills, bumping into each other in crowds and never moving for him as he walks around.

It’s the worst place on Earth. It’s hell with cartoon characters. It’s so cheerful Eames wants to die. He regrets not wearing shorts for the first time in his life.

He finds Arthur in Epcot, in a nice white button-up and grey shorts that probably cost $600. “Did you know how hard it is to break into this place? I had to buy a bloody ticket!”

Arthur doesn’t look up from taking a photo of the Spaceship Earth geodesic dome with his iPhone. “Mm-hmm.”

“I don’t think I’ve bought a ticket to something in a decade, Arthur. Whatever job you’re planning here is going to be impossible.”

“I’m here for a _vacation_ , Eames,” Arthur says as he wanders over to a stall selling Disney character hats. He puts Minnie Mouse ears on Eames’ head and Eames just stares at him as he snaps a picture.

“I wish I had an Instagram account,” Arthur says wistfully.

“I thought you had a Blackberry,” Eames says, scowling. He doesn’t take the hat off, though. Maybe it’ll save his scalp from the sun.

“Only for work. It’s more professional and less likely to get stolen or hacked.”

“So what I’m learning is that you like to pretend to be an incredibly boring person, but on the inside have an affinity for frozen drinks and amusement parks.”

“Exactly.” Arthur smiles. “Even I don’t understand why I like certain things, but I do, okay?”

Arthur takes him on a drinking tour of the world, courtesy of over-priced Epcot restaurants and bars. He also makes him go on the “Maelstrom: A High Seas Norwegian Adventure,” which is dark and not nearly as terrifying as the description outside made it sound.

“This isn’t what Norway is like at all,” Eames says a giant wooden bear looks at them.

“Shh, this is Norway _in the past_ ,” Arthur says, sounding just like a man who demanded several glacier-related shots before the ride. At least It’s a Small World is far away, in another park.

They get more drinks in China, this time vodka and tea, and continue to trek around the world. Arthur makes Eames try on traditional hats so he can take photos. 

“I’m feeling Italian,” Arthur says, and drags them to a place called Alfredo’s.

“I’m still not really sure what your hardcore vacationing is meant to accomplish,” Eames says, squinting at Arthur over his menu. It has romantic dogs eating pasta on it.

“Look, it’s not like I had a lot of time in my twenties to fuck around.” Arthur is looking at the wine list.

“Isn’t that when all young people do in America? Isn’t that what college is for?”

“I was at college on a military scholarship, so...no.”

“That sounds dreadful.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and eats a breadstick.

“After college I was an enlisted officer, which I guess did let me travel a bit. Made Green Beret, stole a PASIV, met Mal, and you know the rest. I’m sure you’d agree, the last two years haven’t been all that conducive to relaxing.”

“I still think you’re not doing much of either. Today seemed planned out to the minute.” Arthur even had a list of cocktails to try on his phone, with a little map.

“I like planning. You like that I like planning -- isn’t that why you’re here? My planning skills?”

They order food and get a ludicrous bottle of wine that has to be brought up from the cellar, and Arthur winks at Eames after ordering and he’s not sure how to take that.

“Anyway, maybe I wouldn’t be so tense if I didn’t think my every move was being stalked by at least one person at all times.” 

Eames laughs. “I know it’s not just me following you around.”

“I know, that’s the worst part. You’re probably the most benign person who could show up at any moment.”

“Well I hope I didn’t interrupt your hideously overpriced booze cruise around Disney World.”

“Oh, no, you showing up was on my contingency plan.” Arthur grins. “So what did you spend your twenties doing that even the magic of Disney can’t win you over?”

“I studied acting for a few years but I could tell it wasn’t going to work out.,” he says. “Too much of a brute to play much of a leading man.”

Arthur cracks a smile. “It’s true. You are more of the muscle than the romantic lead.”

“Yes, well. Then I eventually found my way to dreamshare, though it wasn’t nearly as direct as it seemed to be for you.”

“I am curious to hear this story,” Arthur says, folding his hands together under his chin and leaning forward theatrically. “The rumors about how you got into this business are, as I’m sure you know, numerous and varied.”

“They can be outrageous,” Eames says. He’s rather pleased that he’d managed to build up so much notoriety in such a short time. If only he’d had this much interest when training to be an actor. 

Their food and wine arrives, and Arthur approves it without tasting it, scandalizing the sommelier. 

“Excuse my American friend,” Eames says and they both share a knowing eyeroll.

“Don’t act all high and mighty around me. You’re still wearing Minnie ears,” Arthur points out. “And if half of the stories about you are true I’ll be impressed.”

Eames’ hand hovers in between adjusting and taking off the hat. “My life of crime started in forgery and art theft, if that helps.” He leaves it on.

“I knew that, but I was hoping you also dabbled in bank robbery.”

“No, too violent, ironically. I did, however, run quite a good business forging degrees from prestigious universities in England. It was Miles who caught one of my customers, and Mal who hunted me down -- they wanted me on a project they were doing.”

Arthur lifts his glass. “Mal always knew how to recognize quality,”

“She always appreciated style. To Mal.” They toast.

“So, now that I’ve bared my soul, will you consider the job I came here to hire you for?”

Arthur shakes his head. “Vay. Cay. Shun.” He taps his fingers on the side of the glass to punctuate.

“Vacation isn’t retirement!” Eames snaps, too loud for the dimly lit restaurant.

“But it does mean ‘not working.’ Eames, I’ve been in the field a long time. After the whole mess with Cobb...I just want a break. Even if it’s highly structured.”

“But you’re just going to places for children.”

Arthur grins at him. “I’m staying at the Yacht Club resort and I promise you I can show you how adult it is.” He winks again.

Eames isn’t going to say no to that just because Arthur won’t take the job.

Obviously.

-

When Saito calls, Eames knows he needs to get serious about recruiting Arthur. He’s not missing out on a Saito job, and he’s certainly not taking a Saito job without the best pointman possible. 

Of course, having just escaped the summer in the northern hemisphere, he ends up in Byron Bay, New South Wales. 

Arthur’s rented a nice little beachside condo, but the security is shit. Eames is still surprised to not immediately find a gun in his face after he picks the lock. The living room is dark but there are a few books scattered about, and Arthur’s iPhone.

He resists the temptation to scroll through it and steps outside.

That feels better -- Arthur has the gun in hand, sitting up on a beach lounger in nothing but a pair of swimming trunks, no Speedo in sight.

“Jesus fuck, Eames.”

“Good to see vacation hasn’t left you too off-guard.” Honestly, Eames is surprised it’s taken this long to get a gun to the face, but it’s the first time he hasn’t approached Arthur in public.

Arthur pops the safety back on and sets the gun back on the tiled ground. He then lowers his sunglasses and squints dubiously at Eames.

“You’re dressed to work,” he says, sliding his legs back onto the lounger and lighting a cigarette. “I.e., the opposite of what I’m here for.”

“I’m really unclear as to what you’re here for, actually,” Eames says, “You don’t even like Australia, not since you got bit by, what was it, three different snakes? on the Nufarm job.”

“There’s good scuba diving here,” he says defensively. “Nice beaches. Hunks.” The last one is a little mean. 

“It’s like you made a list of places people like to go for holiday, and now you’re grimly checking them off, one by one.”

Arthur’s mouth is a pursed line of irritation.

“Oh god,” Eames says, unable to keep himself from laughing, “that’s exactly what you’ve done, isn’t it?”

“Shut up.”

“What’s next on -- wait, is that my favorite bourbon?”

There’s a tumbler and a bottle sitting next to his gun by the lounger.

“Maybe I was just homesick for a taste of America,” Arthur says sullenly.

Eames picks up the glass and takes a swig. “It is. Arthur, were you expecting me?”

The eyeroll is obvious even from behind the sunglasses. “Of course I was. You showed up at two of my last four trips, I figured you’d pop in for this one. And Saito called.”

“Wait,” Eames says, glass frozen. “He called you too?”

“Yes? I turned him down.”

Eames finishes the bourbon. “Well, he told me to get you anyway.”

“I’m working on my tan.” Arthur’s voice is irritated but his lip is quirked, like he’s fighting back a smile.

“What’s the next place on your list?” 

“It’s Euro-Disney.”

Eames is glad he finished the bourbon before asking. “No.”

Now Arthur is grinning gleefully. “Come with me to Euro-Disney and I’ll take the job.”

“No.”

“You love Paris, I love Paris, we can stay at the Davey Crockett Ranch.”

“Arthur.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve been following me around just for the jobs.” Arthur is back to squinting over his sunglasses. It’s an effective gaze.

“I miss working with you!” Eames sputters.

“Okay, you’re close.” Arthur stands up and Eames notices the way his trunks ride his hips, the endearing smear of sunscreen on his nose.

Arthur kisses him.

-

Eames concedes, eventually -- Disneyland Paris with Arthur is far less boring than just about anything without Arthur.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the lovely Yvi. The title is from a Cibo Matto song.


End file.
